Your Character's Name: Cupid
The air is growing cold again, my how time flies in this place. It seems like only yesterday it was spring and I was trying to get my roof to stop leaking. And summer when I was trying to keep my vegetables watered. And now its getting cold and grey and quiet. It’s the quiet that sticks with me most. It always has been I guess. As far back as I can remember. I recently rediscovered my old travel journal. I haven’t written in years. Maybe I never will again. Reading the things in my tattered old notebook… I can’t remember these things anymore. Like dreams long after waking. I remember my parents, and the town where I grew up. I know that I left, but it seems so impossibly long ago. Many wayward travelers have come and gone since then. Stayed in this place to heal. I have a group of five people helping me now and I hope that that number will continue to increase. Some stay and some go. We’re happy here most of the time. Sometimes we have to scare off raiders and scavengers, but we make due. The traps that we’ve laid around the grounds do a decent job of keeping people out. And the signs warning of landmines definitely help. Wow, first time in forever that I decide to write something, and this is what comes out? Musings about our clinic’s defenses? I need a vacation.
I’ve almost thrown my old journal out countless times, but could never bring myself to do it. I always was a bit of a hoarder I guess. Not just in general, but of anything book like. I couldn’t stand the thought of forgetting something important. I couldn’t stand the thought of orphaned novels rotting by the wayside. My parents and I had many books back home in Hamlet. I remember them reading to me all the time when I was growing up. I’d refuse to go to sleep until they read me a story. I love them both so much. I hope they’re ok. I hope that where ever they are and what ever they’re doing, they’re happy. I wrote them a letter once, a quick scratch of a thing, and gave it to a trader once who was heading their way. I wonder if they ever got it. I hope they did. I want to try to visit them, but I can never seem to get away from here. I’ve made plans many times, and things always start to fall apart and I have to stay. I miss them.
I found a Mother and her daughter out in the wastes today. They were malnourished and dehydrated. The Mother was pretty beat up, but they’re both going to be ok. I don’t know what happened to them, but it must have been pretty bad. The poor woman was so shook up, it took me an hour to calm her down enough to treat her injuries. Then it took me another hour to convince her that she should stay here for a while and rest. Her and her baby daughter are sleeping on one of our cots now. I’m glad I got her to stay, she would have died out there alone and injured. I shudder to think of what would have happened to her child.
We had a good harvest this time, and were able to preserve what we won’t be able to eat in jars for the coming winter. We feel blessed. It was a good year, but my heart still goes out to out patients that didn’t make it. We had six more deaths this year. People that didn’t make it here or that we didn’t find in time. I can see the small white crosses marking their graves from my window, standing alongside the three dozen others. Sometimes this place feels more like a morgue than a hospital. Or more like a cemetery. But we try our best to celebrate our successes and push past our failures. We can’t give up because there is sadness here. This new world was built on sadness and pain. We have to do our best to persevere. We owe it to those struggling to survive.
I’m going home for a while, it feels like it's time. I’ve already told the others living and working here with me. They seem worried, but they all understand in their own ways. I know they’ll be ok without me, they’ve all learned so much. I have faith that this place will still be standing strong in my absence. I hope that I will make it back, but I have a feeling that I may not. I know the kinds of dangers that lurk beyond the walls of our clinic. I just hope that I am strong enough to face them.
This morning when I awoke I could see my breath. I guess the cold is really coming now. I had squirrel stew for breakfast, and was glad that I thought to bring one of my traps on this pilgrimage of mine. I’ve been traveling uneventfully for about a week now and can’t help but fear that this is the calm before the storm. I wonder what the people of my village will say when I get there. I just hope they don’t turn me away before I can see my parents. What an awful thought that is.
Another week has passed, and I estimate that I am within two days travel of Hamlet now. The air is cold and crisp around me, and the ground crunches underfoot when I walk. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it seems to be just shy of it. Any day now the world will once again be painted crystalline white.
I hear someone coming towards me through the forest and feel all the blood drain from my face. My breath catches in my throat. I am not afraid to die. But I’ve come so far, why now? Instinct kicks in and I dive behind a huge tree. I clamp my hand over my face trying to keep them from seeing my breath. I feel so very obvious hiding here. Logic tells me I’m being ridiculous but my heart is screaming.
“Here piggy, piggy!”, one of the men taunts to the open air.
His partners laugh, and I wonder if they’ve seen me. Please God, let them have not. I peak around the tree, and through the woods I can see the walls of Hamlet. Don’t let me fail now. One of them shoots at my tree, and they erupt into a series of erratic yells and barbaric hoots. I draw my pistols and tell myself to breathe.
The air is growing cold again, my how time flies in this place. It seems like only yesterday it was spring and I was trying to get my roof to stop leaking. And summer when I was trying to keep my vegetables watered. And now its getting cold and grey and quiet. It’s the quiet that sticks with me most. It always has been I guess. As far back as I can remember. I recently rediscovered my old travel journal. I haven’t written in years. Maybe I never will again. Reading the things in my tattered old notebook… I can’t remember these things anymore. Like dreams long after waking. I remember my parents, and the town where I grew up. I know that I left, but it seems so impossibly long ago. Many wayward travelers have come and gone since then. Stayed in this place to heal. I have a group of five people helping me now and I hope that that number will continue to increase. Some stay and some go. We’re happy here most of the time. Sometimes we have to scare off raiders and scavengers, but we make due. The traps that we’ve laid around the grounds do a decent job of keeping people out. And the signs warning of landmines definitely help. Wow, first time in forever that I decide to write something, and this is what comes out? Musings about our clinic’s defenses? I need a vacation.
I’ve almost thrown my old journal out countless times, but could never bring myself to do it. I always was a bit of a hoarder I guess. Not just in general, but of anything book like. I couldn’t stand the thought of forgetting something important. I couldn’t stand the thought of orphaned novels rotting by the wayside. My parents and I had many books back home in Hamlet. I remember them reading to me all the time when I was growing up. I’d refuse to go to sleep until they read me a story. I love them both so much. I hope they’re ok. I hope that where ever they are and what ever they’re doing, they’re happy. I wrote them a letter once, a quick scratch of a thing, and gave it to a trader once who was heading their way. I wonder if they ever got it. I hope they did. I want to try to visit them, but I can never seem to get away from here. I’ve made plans many times, and things always start to fall apart and I have to stay. I miss them.
I found a Mother and her daughter out in the wastes today. They were malnourished and dehydrated. The Mother was pretty beat up, but they’re both going to be ok. I don’t know what happened to them, but it must have been pretty bad. The poor woman was so shook up, it took me an hour to calm her down enough to treat her injuries. Then it took me another hour to convince her that she should stay here for a while and rest. Her and her baby daughter are sleeping on one of our cots now. I’m glad I got her to stay, she would have died out there alone and injured. I shudder to think of what would have happened to her child.
We had a good harvest this time, and were able to preserve what we won’t be able to eat in jars for the coming winter. We feel blessed. It was a good year, but my heart still goes out to out patients that didn’t make it. We had six more deaths this year. People that didn’t make it here or that we didn’t find in time. I can see the small white crosses marking their graves from my window, standing alongside the three dozen others. Sometimes this place feels more like a morgue than a hospital. Or more like a cemetery. But we try our best to celebrate our successes and push past our failures. We can’t give up because there is sadness here. This new world was built on sadness and pain. We have to do our best to persevere. We owe it to those struggling to survive.
I’m going home for a while, it feels like it's time. I’ve already told the others living and working here with me. They seem worried, but they all understand in their own ways. I know they’ll be ok without me, they’ve all learned so much. I have faith that this place will still be standing strong in my absence. I hope that I will make it back, but I have a feeling that I may not. I know the kinds of dangers that lurk beyond the walls of our clinic. I just hope that I am strong enough to face them.
This morning when I awoke I could see my breath. I guess the cold is really coming now. I had squirrel stew for breakfast, and was glad that I thought to bring one of my traps on this pilgrimage of mine. I’ve been traveling uneventfully for about a week now and can’t help but fear that this is the calm before the storm. I wonder what the people of my village will say when I get there. I just hope they don’t turn me away before I can see my parents. What an awful thought that is.
Another week has passed, and I estimate that I am within two days travel of Hamlet now. The air is cold and crisp around me, and the ground crunches underfoot when I walk. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it seems to be just shy of it. Any day now the world will once again be painted crystalline white.
I hear someone coming towards me through the forest and feel all the blood drain from my face. My breath catches in my throat. I am not afraid to die. But I’ve come so far, why now? Instinct kicks in and I dive behind a huge tree. I clamp my hand over my face trying to keep them from seeing my breath. I feel so very obvious hiding here. Logic tells me I’m being ridiculous but my heart is screaming.
“Here piggy, piggy!”, one of the men taunts to the open air.
His partners laugh, and I wonder if they’ve seen me. Please God, let them have not. I peak around the tree, and through the woods I can see the walls of Hamlet. Don’t let me fail now. One of them shoots at my tree, and they erupt into a series of erratic yells and barbaric hoots. I draw my pistols and tell myself to breathe.